We barely make it to August alive,
and I find you sitting outside our front door in your nightgown.
Always at the top of the long stairs that groan and frighten me
more on the way down than when I’m slowly making my way
up after being on Cross King Ave long enough to realize
that I have to go back home eventually.

You say you’re waiting for the snowstorm
that was promised for all of your West Texas childhood.
I can’t be unselfish enough to put a hand
on your tense shoulders and ask you quietly
to come back in the house for as long as it takes to get better.

Several deep scratches dictate the future that’s been laid out
in the palms of your hands. I almost wish we could find a dramatic
chemical imbalance to share while making the six-thousand-mile journey
to the Valley of Rest Homes.

We could sing along to the news of the day,
eat turkey sandwiches on the hood of our car
while the moon stands aside to make way for those smokestack clouds
and pretend there isn’t an almost religious intention
to ensure only one of us comes back at all.

The crazed hitchhiker with a mask made of chicken feathers
and mismatched combat boots could do the driving.
Meanwhile we take to the backseat and pretend we’re fearless
adolescents with a the glory of a stolen car and twenty large
next to the tire iron in the trunk.

We can wake up at the foot of a bed that wasn’t slept in at all.
The shower will be yours alone for as long as you need it.

I would give you everything I ever dreamed of handing over.
Back when I imagined traveling so much that everything became ordinary.

My better years were spent waking up by sticking my head
out the window while my idiot friend with good intentions
swerved in and out of his own personal educational film on safe driving.

Once in a while
I hoped to meet someone just like you.

Regret still doesn’t figure into it. It never will.
Remember that I’ll miss you long after you get back to our place
with the silence that goes hand-against-waist with not having
someone like me to talk your ear off.

04/17/2011

Author's Note: The funny part about this one is how I got it rolling with a stanza I cut from a poem I wrote recently. As I was editing this one I realized that same stanza once again didn't need to hang around, so I cut it from the proceedings. I amuse easily. Most terminal fools do.

Posted on 04/17/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard